


Professional Help

by xzombiexkittenx



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Professions, Assassins & Hitmen, For a given definition of cute, Gen, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal's crush is visible from space, Hannigram Secret Santa, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xzombiexkittenx/pseuds/xzombiexkittenx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a stranger in Hannibal Lecter's house, peering out the window through the scope of an L115A3 bolt-action rifle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Professional Help

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vulcanplomeeksoup](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=vulcanplomeeksoup).



> My secret santa giftee for the Hannigram Holiday Exchange 2015 was vulcanplomeeksoup and they wanted a Hannibal AU. Which is lucky for them, since I know from AUs. 
> 
> And thank you to everyone who offered me advice on a quick and fancy meal for Hannibal to make. Turns out that steak tartar is known as a cannibal sandwich in Wisconsin. It seemed too perfect. 
> 
> The title comes from the joke, "I told my ex I felt like killing him and he told me I needed professional help...So I hired a hitman."

The conference was a colossal waste of Hannibal's time. Half the panelists suffered some sort of gastrointestinal crisis and had spent the week incapacitated. The other half, unfortunately, were insufferable bores. Hannibal called the airline, swapped his flight, and left two days early, unable to feign interest. He remained hopeful that he might escape whatever con plague had struck down the others. There were many benefits to bringing one's own meals from home.

The flight home was an equally irritating experience, though mercifully not delayed or extended. After exchanging a few banal pleasantries with his seat mate he was dismayed to discover the man would. not. stop. talking. And it was too late to pretend he didn't speak English. Hannibal accepted the man's business card with extreme prejudice and was already making plans to add him to his next triptych. 

The taxi had one of those horrible little pine tree air fresheners and Hannibal had a wicked headache from the olfactory assault. All he wanted was to go home, shower, change into his pajamas, eat something starchy, and go to bed. All things considered, he was not surprised when that didn't happen.

He went to disable his home alarm and realized that it was already disabled. There was someone in his house. How curious. He hadn't seen any evidence that his locks had been tampered with. Hannibal set his bag down in the foyer as quietly as possible, toed his shoes off, and hung up his coat. If someone was attempting to rob him, they were going to regret it.

At least the culprit was in the kitchen. It would make clean-up a lot easier.

Hannibal was intending to come up behind the man, put him in a sleeper hold until he was unconscious, sedate him properly, and then decide what to do when he actually saw what was happening and froze. 

Yes, there was a stranger in his house, but they weren't trying to rob him, that was very clear. The man was at the window, all his focus on something outside of Hannibal's yard.

There was some kind of rifle set up in the widow, muzzle resting on the ledge, body on a tripod. It looked sleek, expensive, and very, very deadly.

The man who had, until just that moment, been peering through the scope, lifted his head.

"Hello," Hannibal said, delighted. 

Never in all his life had Hannibal imagined such a serendipitous meeting. An actual, honest-to-god assassin in his kitchen. And he was beautiful. God, like a Botticelli, with his curls in disarray and the pink bow of his lips pulled down into a frown. He was gracile, with a visible, wiry strength in his body. How Hannibal loved his Botticelli. 

"Oh," the man said. His hand crept towards the small of his back where there was likely a second gun, or a knife. "You're home early."

"The conference was exceedingly tedious." Hannibal gestured at the fridge. "Can I offer you something to eat? I was planning on making myself something simple, but I could be persuaded to put together an actual meal if you're able to take time away from the scope."

The following silence was long and - from the stranger's end - very confused.

"I'm Hannibal Lecter," Hannibal said.

There was the barest hint of a smile on the man's perfect lips. "I know that. I'm in your house," the man pointed out. "With a gun. You don't seem very concerned." 

Hannibal ached to draw him; a vision of concentration, a hunter in his blind, a little moue of concentration on his face as he looked through the scope.

"You're obviously not here to kill _me_ ," Hannibal said. He decided that his guest's silence on the matter was as good as an affirmation and went to the fridge to see what was still there. From the looks of it, his unexpected house guest had been there for a few days and had been eating his food. A little frisson of pleasure ran through Hannibal. "Should I be concerned?" he added.

"Most people would be," the man said. 

Hannibal examined his cheese selection. "I think you'll find that I am not 'most people.' Would you like a light supper or no?"

"Will," the man said. "My name is Will. I, uh, yeah?" 

Will watched as Hannibal took out eggs, some finely minced meat, and capers. His weight rested on his dominant leg, ready to react quickly. Ready to run or fight. Hannibal bet he'd be spectacular in a one-on-one match. Part of him wanted to try to kill Will just to see how beautifully he'd go down, how prettily he would bleed.

"So, you don't seem very upset that I'm here to kill one of your neighbours."

"Will," Hannibal said. "I don't even need to ask you who you're here for. He was a blight on the entire community. Whoever hired you is performing a public service. If he or she hadn't hired you, I'm certain someone else would have taken care of the situation."

Will's expression was shrewd, some killer's instinct pricking up its ears. "Someone else," he said.

"Some civic-minded citizen," Hannibal agreed placidly, preparing the steak tartar with pepper and mustard. "Can I offer you some wine?"

A flush of colour rose up in Will's cheeks. "Actually," he said.

"A beer then," Hannibal said, unable to hold back his smile. He selected one from his fridge and poured it for Will with a little flourish, making sure to put it between them, so Will could get to it without needing to come too close. It felt a little bit like coaxing a wild animal to him.

"I don't mind you helping yourself," Hannibal reassured him, cutting two thick slices of rye bread and rubbing them with fresh cloves of garlic. "My kitchen is always open." 

"To a man who's going to put a bullet through the eye of someone you know."

"That's quite a skillful shot," Hannibal said. "I'm impressed." He put the steak on the bread pressed an indent into the centre of the meat. Will came incrementally closer so he could watch Hannibal crack the egg and separate out the yolk so it rested in the dimple. 

"Impressed, and also not running for your life. Do you usually eat all your food raw?"

Hannibal decided that garnishing the plate would probably be pushing it a little bit. He set the plate down in front of Will. "Only when I'm fresh off a plane and find myself unexpectedly entertaining. I told you, Will, I'm not concerned. Only, let me know what day you anticipate executing your contract. There's plenty of places I can go to be seen at. Seems a shame to waste a perfectly good set-up. Besides, mutually assured destruction is a perfectly valid way for us to cement our trust, dare I say our friendship."

"You think this is a friendship?"

"I think it could be. Eat your steak."

Will frowned at him but did as he was told. "You're totally crazy, you know that, right? Someone must have told you that before."

"Never to my face," Hannibal said. "But I hide it well. Like you do, I imagine."

Will snorted. "Not so well as you might think. But this is a pretty solitary career, means I don't have to fake it. I could've been a cop. Maybe forensics. I was always pretty good at science. But you have to deal with people. Live people who want to talk to you. It's exhausting."

Hannibal wanted to ask how one got into assassination as a career choice, but opted to nod at the rifle instead. "I've never seen a gun like that in person."

Will smiled self-depreciatingly. It made him look devastatingly handsome. "It's an L115A3 bolt-action rifle, fires a .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge. Weighed six point nine kg before I modded it, now it's seven-one. I've had her for coming on five years now. Best gun I ever owned. The L115A3 is an older model now," Will took another bite of his food and Hannibal was delighted that he both chewed and swallowed before he continued. "But the new one is a modular multi-calibre rifle and I figure the more moving, changeable parts, the more likely it is to foul up in the field. Or maybe I'm just set in my ways."

Hannibal felt his eyebrows inch up fractionally. "I see," he said, unable to sound less charmed and amused than he was.

Will grinned, head tilting with embarrassment. "Yeah, I guess I can get a little technical."

Hannibal leaned forward, hands clasped on the table so he wouldn't reach out and touch the curve of Will's smile. "And I imagine you don't often get the opportunity to talk shop."

"A lot of gun people can be...interesting." Will sighed. "I'm actually an advocate of stricter firearms regulations."

"You're not as bad with people as you advertise," Hannibal pointed out. "Not getting along with people who are liable to vote for Donald Trump doesn't make you maladjusted. Quite the opposite, I would say."

Will's expression was shrewd over the top of his glass. "That's because you haven't seen my party trick. No one likes it."

"Is it when you put a bullet through someone's eye from over five hundred yards away?" Hannibal rubbed his forehead. Something was off. He couldn't quite put his...something...

"No," Will said. He quirked one side of his mouth up. "You don't want to see it."

"Will," Hannibal said, having a little trouble with putting his thoughts in a line, "one thing you will learn about me is that I always want to know, and I always want to see." He wanted to see what Will looked like when he killed, he wanted to know how he felt about it. He wondered if Will would ever consider branching out from a rifle.

The whole world tilted slightly sideways. Hannibal gripped the counter-top to avoid falling over.

"Sorry, Doctor," Will said. He caught Hannibal's elbow and helped him sit down on the kitchen floor. "This isn't the trick. This is a mild sedative. It should wear off in an hour or two."

"You drugged me?" Hannibal asked. The floor was much better, although it was making a game attempt to slide away from him.

Will began disassembling his rifle. Watching his hands work was like watching a sculptor, or a composer. It was beautiful, competent, and Hannibal wanted to taste his hands.

"You are one weird guy," Will said. He sounded fond. "Thanks for the food, sorry about the whole...assassin in your kitchen thing."

"Don't go," Hannibal tried to say. "I find you very interesting and I suspect I'd like to ask you to bed with me." But he thought he might be slurring and the floor really was very comfortable. Nice and cool.

He woke up two hours later on his floor with a blistering headache, dry mouth, and a blanket he'd left in the living room draped over him, a pillow under his head. There was a piece of paper in his hand that read: If you ever need someone killed, call this number, ask for Ben. He'll set something up. I figure I owe you one for not calling the cops. - W

Hannibal decided that, as soon as he could get up, he was going to have a look through his Rolodex for a potential job. Will probably hadn't meant 'set up' as in 'set up a date' but who said everything had to be all murder all the time? Probably there would still be murder, but that wasn't the point. Hannibal tucked the note in his pocket and smiled a little. Yes, it would be simple enough to arrange a meeting with Will...Just as soon as he could get up.

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably be the first of a series of hitman!Will stories wherein Hannibal keeps trying to hang out while Will is trying to do his job. Because what's more fun than disgruntled assassin Will Graham?


End file.
